Necessary Evil
by imaginexthat
Summary: For Tom, hatred begets the greatest ideas; it saved him from oblivion. For Hermione, hatred blinds the greatest of thinkers; it bound her to her enemy.


**Summary**: _For Tom, hatred begets the greatest ideas; it saved him from oblivion. For Hermione, hatred blinds the greatest thinkers; it bound her to her enemy._

**Disclaimer:** _JKR owns Potterverse. I own nothing but my imagination._

**A/N:**_ Summary may change. May later change to a one-shot. IDK! _

* * *

Tom Riddle slowly emerged from the large black cabinet, feet landing softly on the dark stone floor. The vast room did not look like it received much sunlight, and after some moments, he realized that this was not part of the castle. It was however, a dank, dreary, but familiar shop in Knockturn Alley.

He might get another detention on top of the one he just received. But, add to that the second Special Services to the School trophy, he will still get the position of Head Boy. It will always work out in his favor.

His thoughts hence dismissed, Tom's attention shifted to the glass case on the wall opposite, near the dying hearth. In it was a withered hand on a cushion, a hangman's rope, a bloody deck of cards; but Tom was more interested on the broken glass, and there on the floor were scattered shards of what used to be opalescent jewelry. He picked up the note on the floor, and lit his wand tip. _"Caution. Do Not Touch. Cursed. Has claimed the lives of 19 muggle owners to date." _

As he stood up, he heard a soft moan. He whispered **"Nox,"** and in the semi-darkness, a few feet to his left, a figure lay on the floor on the verge of regaining consciousness. Upon close inspection, Tom recognized Borgin, the proprietor, an acquaintance of the Malfoys. He now remembered that he had been in this shop once with Abraxas. Apparently, Borgin had been stunned. Tom debated against Legilimensing the man, for there was the possibility that he could've been obliviated; he might not even harbor any information at all.

Tom looked around. The place had been searched. The drawers were open. Small boxes were on the floor, their contents spilled. On the counter was an open ledger book that had a remnant of a page that was ripped. He was about to open the front door that led to wherever the culprit had gone when a louder moan was heard from Borgin.

Tom bit his lip, exhaled sharply then immediately rushed towards the cabinet, and with one longing look at the door, disillusioned himself and went back whence he came.

Hagrid was gone for good. Edward has been collected by his father. Tom soon realized that detention was the least of his problems.

Later that morning on a warm Easter holiday, in the headmaster's office, in front of melancholic Professor Dippet, prejudiced deputy headmaster Dumbledore and three stern Aurors, Tom Marvolo Riddle was arrested on charges of murder of three muggles.

He became panicky, for at the age of 17, he had not fully mastered self-control. He looked back at them dazed, wondering how they could have found out. His dreams shattered before him. He will never become Head Boy. He will never again set foot in this beloved school of his. He wanted the world to know he is the heir of the greatest sorcerer in the world. But this was not what he had in mind.

He tried to reach for the door to get some air, but they gripped his arms back. He was not running away; he was not a coward. He tried to occlude his mind, but it was fighting a battle of its own. He was confused. One question was foremost in his mind. One word was tearing him inside.

_Why?_

He was betrayed. The memories of someone who tricked him were used as evidence. It was a speedy and unjust trial. No one rallied to his defense. He worked alone, after all. He was convicted and sentenced to Azkaban for twenty years. The Wizengamot considered the sentence severely compassionate given his age and state of mind. He was not allowed to speak, even when he had something to say. His muggle father did not deserve to live any more than his witch mother did not desire to live. He never saw the traitor again, and that fact sent his mind reeling and his heart racing.

He was betrayed, and it unnerved him no end. He was exposed, cornered, humiliated.

Voldemort will exact revenge. In the most brutal way. Time is inconsequential when retribution is involved. When honor is at stake. It's good to be immortal when you hate so much and so many.

Voldemort will never know defeat. The difference between fate and destiny is control.

* * *

They had taken away his wand, but not his magic. He is a survivor of misfortune. He could perform wandless magic that even the bravest wardens kept their distance. He could hear thoughts apart from his own, if he calmed himself long enough. They were thoughts of pity and shame.

**"He's just a boy." **

**"How could he waste his life like that?" **

**"Ah, youth, always impulsive, lacking wisdom. He's learning it the hard way, isn't he?"**

He only sees them when they bring his food. Food that he thought was poison, food that only unwanted orphan muggle children eat.

Throughout most of the day he heard a different set of thoughts, discernible only after great effort.

**"He is useless to us. No happy memory at all." **

**"I for one will leave him alone. He is reading our minds. He's bargaining with us to let him escape." **

**"We have a pact with the wizards. Besides, the wardens say that this one's just a boy." **

**"No one escapes Azkaban, young wizard. Sooner or later you will receive our kiss of death."**

He was not afraid of them, even though he trembled at their presence. He felt his insides freeze, and he squirmed for hours. Such disturbing sensations made him forget the passing of time, for time did not seem to pass at all.

It was so dark in his confines that no shape was distinguishable from a few feet away. He kept his mind active and walked around the cell, his hands held on to the icy walls, his bare feet tried to count the steps. He always lost count. He felt dizzy, and his head hurt from constant hunger. Stale cold air filtered through the gaps of the metal bars. He knew what lurked beyond wanted him dead.

Hatred had always saved him from oblivion. It sharpened his mind; it strengthened his will. Until sleep came, he focused on his hate.

He constantly thought about his betrayer. The person closest to him allied with the one he feared, no, hated the most.

He tried to formulate a plan of escape, but with no ally, it was next to impossible. He realized the true reason why Dumbledore kept putting off teaching him animagi transformation. Ironically, the deputy headmaster was his only visitor from the outside world.

**"I regret this as much as you do, Tom. But you have to learn that crime against humanity is the most despicable act of all. Knowledge, skill, power, these are not everything. You will realize that here."**

The old fool assumed he could mess with Tom's mind. No one tells him who he is. His vision had dimmed further as he poured all his magic unto this old professor. Whether Dumbledore cracked a skull or any other bone as he collided with the opposite wall was not important. Tom was no longer part of the school. No more false pretenses. No need for graciousness.

He did not care about consequences anymore. He collapsed on the floor, his strength escaping him.

He had since then been alone.

* * *

How long had he been in this dark, hollow, cold place? The room was small, its four walls and the floor were made of dusty, rough, grey stone. There were bars but no window to indicate the time of day. If there was a door, it was likely concealed in the wall. It smelled of dead rats and rotten food. The only sound was distant, faint rattling. It must be winter, judging by the chilly, scant air, and the icy breaths from his parched mouth. The room evoked emotions he has never had since childhood. Loneliness. Abandonment. Fear. Helplessness. Hopelessness. These were akin to physical pain. He felt beyond exhaustion, as if breathing was the only thing he was capable of. He could see floating bodies around him, sometimes speaking to him, sometimes passing by without a word. Sometimes familiar, sometimes not. He huddled in a corner of the room with his back against the cold stone wall. He wanted to leave this place, but he knew he could not.

His mind had been failing him. He could not remember how he got here. He could not remember if he ever had a purpose. If he ever belonged somewhere, or to someone. Once in a while images flash before him; vivid for a short time, eliciting in him an inexplicable yearning. Images that never stayed long enough for him to recall, though the pangs linger longer.

He is alive, but barely. He knows he is awake because he feels cold to the bone, because he convulses from the onslaught of his memories. Unhappy memories come with rattling sounds, and raspy breaths. He spends his waking hours crouched or curled up on the floor, unable to move, much less stand. He could never tell when these dreadful hours end and his dreams begin. Sleep offers short solace. Between one and the other, there is no choice and no consolation. This routine is not living, and it can drive anyone mad.

He knew that at one time he was brilliant and powerful. The envy of many. At one time, he was young, full of dreams, in control of his destiny. At one time, he did not need anyone. He was complete. He was a force to reckon with.

He knew that at one time he was Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Now, self-dignity has vague meaning. He was not even aware of his own near-nakedness. His clothes tattered, loose, and soiled; his long hair dirty, oily, matted; his bearded face grimy, sunken, and tear streaked; his mouth so dry that swallowing was painful. But appearances are least important to him now. He was stripped that he supposed his soul was plainly visible. Souls must have feelings then, and memories. Do souls analyze, or just be? All he has are memories. The worst, the most painful memories are the strongest ones, the ones that torment him in his wakeful hours. They are unbidden, powerful, crippling. They always leave him weeping, trembling.

There were memories of his two childhood friends, a boy and a girl, whom he scared to near insanity by revealing his special abilities. His two friends had refused to associate with him afterward, for fear or disgust, Tom was not certain. Nobody wanted to be friends with a freak. He was particularly jealous of their inseparability; their happiness, their unspoken understanding; they were teens who thought they would amount to anything in this world with no education and no money. They thought that by eloping they would be free to do whatever they wanted. He did not understand them; they did not understand him. They were found dead in a deserted street, with a dead baby in the girl's arms. He believed he had cursed them.

There were memories of being bullied by bigger orphan boys, of being shunned by his carers, of being rejected by prospective parents. The boys hated him, thought him weak; in a way, he was, because he could not use his innate power to his advantage. The adults were scared of him. He was a troublemaker and a liar, and no amount of discipline or advice changed that. Muggles just did not understand that Tom was not born to conform.

There were memories of his first two years being taunted and hexed by older housemates. Of bruises that he had to conceal with magic; broken bones he had to mend by magic. No one was on his side.

Who could forget Hagrid? The Gryffindor half-giant, half-wit who was allowed to debase the school with his inept skill and unyielding, nonsensical inclination to domesticate monsters. Why did everyone think Hagrid was capable of murder, when he did not even know where the secret chamber was? It had been too easy. Plant a seed of doubt, frame the boy of the crime and the rest is filled in by preconceived notion of giants. For a boy twice as tall as a normal man, Hagrid did not know how to defend himself. He had no honor, after all. For two years Tom fought to discredit the boy's benign character; the students believed the tales he propagated of Hagrid caring for werewolf cubs under his bed; wrestling with trolls when not breeding blood-sucking creatures in the forest; his campaign to get the centaurs to teach Divination, his desire to have his man-eating family visit the school. Tom could have helped the boy to feel welcome, but he chose not to. The giant wanted nothing more than to have a semblance of a family, especially after losing his human parent. Tom believed Hagrid belonged in the Forbidden Forest, not the prestigious school of Hogwarts. He judged him unworthy of the dignity of wizards.

He remembered Myrtle, the Gryffindor girl killed by his basilisk. She paid a terrible price for his curiosity, his desires for self-vindication. Like Tom, she thought that popularity was important. She could have benefited guidance from a Slytherin prefect who knew what she was going through, but Tom refused to concern himself with mudbloods and their issues. If Gryffindors did not care for their own, why should a Slytherin?

He remembered his father's face, his large hands like his own; his voice, dripping with venom as he disowned his son a second time. He deserved to die. No muggle judge or police would have convicted him; it was not criminal to deprive your rightful heir of a better life. His grandparents were not given a choice to accept him or not. He just judged them and sealed their fates.

He conceded that everyone has the right to life. To decide his fate. He had taken his father's fate, Myrtle's fate, even Hagrid's, into his own hands. He knows how it feels to have that kind of control taken from them. Tom was dangerous to society. He is evil. Here, everyone is safe from him. Did he deserve to be here?

His father, Dumbledore, his housemates, his knights; they all thought he was not good enough. Not for society's elite, not for the magical or muggle community. He was only concerned with power, with hurting people. He was dishonest, untrustworthy, and prone to violence. Dumbledore particularly thought that something was not right with him. Tom had to be separated from all the good people.

Was he feeling sorry for all the people who have wronged him? Was he sorry for having wronged them? Was he feeling sorry for himself?

There was one person who did not feel sorry for him. Who did not think he was abnormal or ordinary. Who used to think he would amount to something. Used to. Tom shuddered.

He was hungry for warmth. The warmth of one touch. The breath that used to warm his cheeks. He ached to hear that human voice that had spoken with tenderness or conviction. His skin, his eyes, his arms, his heart used to find satisfaction in his somnolence. Now his dreams have turned into nightmares, vivid and vindictive.

He would give everything to relive the memory of one human being. He did not know why, but this person was the most valuable thing he had ever known. Maybe because this person never needed him, maybe because this person was as powerful as he used to be. Maybe this person was able to see what others could not. His true worth.

He knew he was sleeping when he sees her. Standing before him in a simple dress, smiling at him. Her eyes light up as she laughs and pulls her head back. Her arms are often spread out towards him, beckoning to him. Other times, he finds her sitting on soft green grass, eyes squinted, either writing on a long piece of parchment, or reading a large tome. Her soft honey curls always suspended by some soft breeze, rutilant from the perpetual sun. Sometimes she is in class, stirring her cauldron of pink potion, while all the time winking at him, with her eyebrows half-singed and her hair quite disheveled. The sight of the corporeal patronus that she brandishes while looking at him smugly in another dream used to mock him; now it comforts him. He feels himself smile in these dreams. When he wakes up, the comfort is all that remained, instantly squashed by dark reality.

Not often, she appears to him enveloped in darkness. Nose wrinkled, eyes glinting in condescension or exasperation. She could be hexing him obstinately. She gives him a predatory, repulsive look, with her arms crossed over her chest, and her lips pursed. He would be awakened by the rapid beating of his heart and a feeling of drowning, but a vague recollection of the cause. Until now.

Now the nightmares seemed real that he could actually remember them. He feared not for his sanity, for he desperately wished he were mad. Then he could not tell the difference between loss and pain, between yearning and disappointment, between justice and self-righteousness.

He sighed deeply. With a finger, he wrote her name on the dusty floor.

What do these nightmares mean? Dreams do not make sense to the normal human mind.

**"You deserve to die, for all the lives that you will take. Your death will never be enough. You have no idea of the pain, the loss. I hate you!" **

He could almost feel her heat, could almost smell her. He wanted to taste her tears, her lips, just once, but she was just a dream. His Patronus, a silvery, corporeal serpent slithered in the distance, no doubt sustained by this memory of her; of the dream. It was not a happy memory, but it was a strong one, and any memory of her would last him a lifetime.

He had always known she loathed him. He refused to dwell on it further. He couldn't if he tried.

It may have been years, months, days, or hours. He wished he could sleep forever. He was neither dead nor alive.

What is his worth now, anyhow? No one cared for him. Not even he. It was only a matter of time before death claimed him. But death did not care for his agony or his impatience. Was this what immortality is like? Because it seemed the end will not come soon enough. Or at all.

* * *

_**If you damage the character of another person, you damage your own.**_  
_**— Yoruba proverb**_

_**Nature never deceives us; it is always we who deceive ourselves.**_  
_**— Jean-Jacques Rousseau, French philosopher (1712-1778)**_

**_Deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance. - Oscar Wilde_**

* * *

**_A/N: Azkaban is a kind of oblivion, is it not? Thank you for reading my stories. Leave me a line if you so incline. The chapters may be snippets, IDK. :D_**

**_Jeanne_**


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